okaeri
by Jack of the Lilies
Summary: Nothing would ever feel more right than that simple exchange. Implied WataYuu, set a few years after ch 182. Oneshot.


I do not own xxxholic or any of its characters, how ever much I would like to. ]:

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**okaeri**

Do you know that feeling you get when it seems as if you've forgotten something, but you don't know quite what it concerns? Something dear and important, something that you know in your heart you should never have forgotten, but something that is gone all the same? That's the feeling I'm experiencing right now. Not just now, but for the past several years. I feel like I should be searching for something, for someplace, for someone, but how can I find it if I can't even recall what it is?

Because of the futility of searching for that unidentifiable desire, I taught myself to ignore the yearning that whispers constantly to me: search, search, search. I've found that drinking helps a lot. I've even given up on trying to recall what it was that I had forgotten, or I almost have. Sometimes, when I'm looking into the window of an antiques store or eating umeboshi or actually cleaning my apartment, I find part of myself responding to that yearning with a wish.

Fate seems determined that I won't ever find what it is that I'm looking for. In comparison to omnipotence of Fate, my wish seems very small and feeble. But what would happen, I wonder, if I were to kindle that wish? If I give it warmth and passion, if I prove to it that I truly care about its existence, if I let it grow to its full potential, then maybe I can nurture it into a force strong enough to challenge Fate, or maybe even become it.

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It's summer now. The humid air weighing pressing down on the world tells me so, as do the cicadas serenading the world about their birth and their very noisy existence. I've been letting my wish grow for quite some time now, and I'm amazed at its progress. When I first consciously brought it out, it was as feeble and small as I had thought it to be. But after I had shown it some love and promised not to shut it away again, it began to grow and metamorphose faster than I could imagine until it almost consumed me. Even drinking could not hinder it, which I was very happy about.

Oddly enough, my wish seems to have finished growing now; it looks smaller than I imagined it would be. Despite its size and apparent fragility, from it I get the impressions of strength and endurance, qualities that I attribute to something that will continue on a journey until the destination is reached. Sometimes I like to think of it as a butterfly.

This morning, my wish woke me up with an eagerness that I have never seen before, and like an energetic dog it dragged me out of bed and through the door to ramble through the town. Its eagerness affects me as well, and a sense of urgency begins to brew within me. Pretty soon it ends up that my butterfly-wish is no longer leading me on a leash. This morning I am keeping pace with it, but it's still not fast enough and I need to go fasterfasterFASTER—

And in my haste, I almost pass by the crescent-topped fence posts that I could have sworn were not there a day ago.

The house behind them is elegant and regal, with an equally regal if not currently nude cherry tree next to it; certainly I would have noticed it sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the boxy metropolitan structures that dominate this neighborhood. And yet, strangely this is the first time I can ever recall having seen the odd house (as that is what it appears to be), though that yearning within me whispers that the place is familiar, less of a house and more of a home, which I find even more strange.

For some reason I find myself compelled to pass between those ornate fence posts, and I find that the path and yard beyond them is very well-kept. "He always liked things neat," I mutter with some amusement, which puzzles me momentarily. At the door I pause and frown, realizing that before opening it I have a detailed image of what the inside should look like. I take off my shoes in the entryway and quietly pad along the hardwood floors. Entering the house feels something like a cross between Goldilocks and the Three Bears and an episode of the Twilight Zone. As I walk through the halls, they give off an aura that tells me it would be so nice to live in, yet at they same time I get the feeling that I already have lived in them before. The butterfly that led me here is being joined by many others, although these are currently fluttering around in my stomach.

Some of the doorways I pass are open, their purposes easily identifiable by the furniture within. Others are closed, yet strangely I can name them as easily as any of the others. This one is a tea room that overlooks the gardens outside. The next is a kitchen that has been cooked in often and lovingly, though a while has passed since the dishes it produced possessed the same enthusiasm as before. And then there is the treasure room, where infinite riches are stored, and not necessarily in the material sense. Here is another room in which lies a battered old couch and smells faintly of tobacco, even though it has been many years since anyone has smoked in this—now why would I know that? For that matter, why should I know any of this? The things in this house and this house itself fill me with a sense of something more than nostalgia. The feeling is frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

At the end of the hallway there is one closed door. This one is different from the others, as I am unsure about what's inside. Telling myself I'll take just a peek, I lay my hand against the wooden frame to slide the door aside—and with that, my butterfly-wish is gone. It was never visible in the first place, but somehow as I touched the wood of the shoji screen I got the sensation of something flying away. Rather than feeling empty as a result of its absence, I feel strangely fulfilled. However, the fact of the matter is that I still don't know what's behind that door, and I want (need?) to find out what's inside.

Inside, as it turns out, is a rather spacious room, with the effect being magnified by the room's few pieces of furniture and the open doors in the opposite wall that overlook the garden. Past them I can see the cherry tree I glimpsed from the street, but what interests me more is the four-poster bed pushed up against one of the other walls. Common sense dictates that I should not go and investigate what could possibly be the bed of the person whose establishment I am intruding upon, but then again common sense hasn't played much of a role in any of my actions this morning. So, disregarding my common sense I approach the veiled bed, feeling less like Goldilocks and more like one of the three bears as I push aside the curtain—

And I see him. The years have matured him and slightly changed the structure of his face, but he doesn't need to open his eyes for me to remember their peculiar hues, blue on the left and amber-green on the right, because I am remembering on my own. I'm remembering the years of solitude within the shop, the day he first stumbled through the front door, the adventures of the children who were at the core of this very mess to begin with, our own adventures, the earnestness with which he told me he wanted to grant my wish, the sound of his voice as he said my name…

At this point, I realize that I am no longer in my memories. Watanuki Kimihiro has opened his eyes and is looking at me through morning grogginess in confusion, yearning, and something else I can't identify. "Yuuko-san?" he repeats hesitantly, as if he thinks he might still be dreaming.

It takes a few tries for me to respond, and I wonder briefly if the influx of memories has pushed out certain trivial abilities, like how to speak. Finally, I settle on the one thing that sounds appropriate in this situation.

"I'm home."

When he smiles at me and replies only a little unsteadily, "Welcome home," I realize nothing in the past several years of my life has felt more right than that simple exchange, and nothing ever will. The only exception would have to be the soothing feeling of his fingers slowly, gently running through my hair.

But it's a pretty close second.

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A/N: In case you're wondering, the title refers to the phrases "Tadaima," which is said when returning home, and "Okaerinasai," which is said to the person returning. I would've used the phrases in the dialogue itself, though to me Romanized Japanese when it's not a proper noun usually looks so awkward… but that's beside the point. Anyway, even though it really feels like the end of xxxholic is fast approaching, I wanted my happy WataYuu ending and I wanted it NOW. xD


End file.
